That old warmin pan wi' it's raand, brazzen face,
Has hung thear for monny a day;
'Twor mi Gronny's, an th' haase wodn't luk like th' same place,
If we tuk th' owd utensil away.
We ne'er use it nah,—but aw recollect th' time,
When at neet it wor filled wi' red cowks;
An ivvery bed gate weel warmed, except mine,
For they sed it wornt meant for young fowks.
When old Gronny deed, t'wornt mich shoo possest,
An mi mother coom in for all th' lot;
An shoo raised up a duzzen, misen amang th' rest,
An shoo lived wol shoo deed i'th' same cot.
Aw'm th' maister here nah, but aw see plain enuff,
Things willn't goa long on th' old plan;
Th' young ens turn up ther nooases at old-fashioned stuff,
An mak gam o' mi old warmin pan.
But aw luk at it oft as it glimmers i'th' leet,
An aw seem to live ovver once mooar;
Them days when mi futer wor all seemin breet,
An aw thowt nowt but joy wor i' stooar.
Aw'm summat like th' pan, aw've aght lasted mi day,
An aw'st sooin get mi nooatice to flit;
But aw've this consolation,—aw think aw may say,
Aw'st leeav some 'at aw've warmed up a bit.